Once Upon A Lonely Alley
by Wojciechowski
Summary: Spot comes across Race alone in a dark alleyway and, instead of beating him up, decides to sit down beside him. (Sprace)


Every day, without fail, saw Racetrack Higgins at the races. That was obvious. And every day, without fail, he lost most everything he had. This was also obvious, to anyone who knew him well. He never won his bets; yet he always returned the next day, unperturbed. He never lost heart or let his spirits down. At least, that was all he ever let on to anyone.

It did get to him occasionally, though. Or something did. He wasn't sure what. But every so often he needed to get away. Every so often, he just needed to escape the crowded confines of the newsboys' boarding house, roam the moonlit streets until he found some nice, secluded spot, and spend the night thinking—or, rather, crying—it all out.

Tonight was such a night. Race had slipped out of his bunk once all the other boys had fallen asleep. It was cold out; if he had been in any decent state of mind, he would never have dreamed of venturing out from beneath his blanket. He was not, however, in a decent state of mind, and he swore he would suffocate if he did not get out of there soon.

After what seemed like hours of mindless wandering, with the chill wind cutting into his cheekbones, he found himself in a dark, filthy, perfect alleyway. Something rough caught his ankle and he tripped, crashing face-down onto the pavement. It was only a stray brick he hadn't had the sense to see, but it was enough. Gasping from the pain and clutching his bleeding ankle, he slumped into a ball and burst into tears.

Why was he crying? He really didn't know. It was just something that had to happen every once in a while. Over and over again he had gone through every prevalent motivator, with every time just as fruitless as the last. Poverty? It had always been his philosophy that a life with nothing to fight for was a life with nothing to live for, so of course that wasn't it. Hopelessness? He always knew that there was another chance for anything as long as the sun rose in the morning. Loneliness? What a stupid thought. He could always count on Mush, and Specs, and Jack, and Blink, and all the other boys. What was there to be lonely about? Was it that he missed his folks? That was another stupid one. Obviously he was better of without his folks. What, then, could it be? The frustration of not knowing only made him cry harder.

Race was so busy crying that he didn't even notice the pair of footsteps approaching.

"Hey," came a demanding, punkish voice. "What'cha crying for?"

Race looked up with a shock. Standing over him was Spot Conlon, the famed and feared King of Brooklyn. "Me?" He said stupidly. "I ain't crying."

Ignoring this, Spot repeated himself. "What'cha crying for?"

Race struggled to answer him. Whatever he said, he was certain to get beat up. Now that Spot Conlon had found him crying he had no hope of getting away unscathed. With the slight comfort of this inevitability, he decided to just tell the truth.

"I don't know." He flinched, bracing himself for the first blow. But, to his astonishment, it never came. Instead of hitting him, Spot sighed and sat down beside him.

It was strange; Race had always held a sort of admiration for Spot Conlon. That was something else he just couldn't explain. Maybe it was fear; maybe it was envy; he never could figure it out. Sitting next to Spot now, though, Race felt a warmth he had never experienced before. He wondered what had caused it, and if it was normal.

The air didn't seem as chill as it had a moment ago. The two boys sat in silence. Their breathing fell in and out of sync in a kind of rhythmic dance. At some point Race noticed that Spot was holding his hand. How had that happened? He didn't remember. He found he rather liked it, though.

After a while, Race asked timidly: "what you doing out here?"

Spot shrugged. "Same as you, I guess. Sometimes you just gotta get out for a while." He looked down at the blood on Race's ankle. "Your leg okay?"

"Huh? Oh; yeah. It's fine."

Their eyes met, and time slowed. Race wondered if that was normal, too. Suddenly he realized how awfully close Spot had become. How awfully, wonderfully close. He felt a blush creeping into his cheeks. He began to wonder whether it was normal—but then their lips met, and he didn't care.

It was a tentative kiss, and far too brief for Race's liking. Burning under this newfound desire, he almost had the courage to ask Spot for another one. Almost. He attempted to read the expression in Spot's eyes as he pulled away. There was a guarded wariness to it, almost fear—though Race knew the idea of Spot Conlon being afraid was ridiculous. He seemed to be searching Race's expression for some kind of answer just as Race was searching his. Race tried not to let on any of his desperation. Nevertheless, his face betrayed him. Thank God. Finding in him the undeniable encouragement of "Yes, please," Spot allowed his confidence to visibly swell, and then leaned back in to repeat the act with a vigor that left them both trembling.

"C'mon," he said softly, pulling Race to his feet and brushing him off. "Get you out of the cold."

Walking off with Spot's arm around him, Race knew that his days of crying alone in dark alleyways were over.


End file.
